


A Devil Among The Tailors

by ThereminVox



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alber Kamu, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-06 03:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: A series of surrealist events chronicling the relationship between live-action Hitachiin twins.





	A Devil Among The Tailors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justanothermaniac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothermaniac/gifts).

> @My dear Jam: This might be nothing more than a spool of nonsense but consider this my gift to you because I aim to craft an actual story to make you laugh, cry and be horny in a mess of delirious emotion. At some point, THERE WILL BE LEGIT SMUT. JUst YOU WAIT. 
> 
> In the meantime... enjoy this prologue I weaned on crack.

Normally, by Gotham’s standards, the hour at hand would be considered regular in its bizarre exposition. An hour from which elusive characters were given to engaging in sordid acts, enticing the seraphic heart to erratic repetitions, fluttering to a rhythm of whispers, erotic. 

Mesmeric, the dregs of Autumn twilight were; spry and crisp. In spite of this, it was not a night to harmonise and reminisce. Following recent events, a certain industrial complex housing garish fluids in modern cauldrons was momentarily bereaved as a result of strenuous misuse. However, in this altered diegesis, the narrator has opted to omit canonical events in favour of fostering a sequence that eschews the eventuality of _ Mr. J’s _tarnished image. 

Stifled in susurration, the jury bears witness to it all at a safe and adumbrated distance. 

Jeremiah’s sequential grunts of rapturous pain chill the rusty spines of ACE Chemicals to its acidic core. Lumbar vertebrae curved to serve his form into curled crouching, perspiration consummating the marriage between consciousness and delirium, he feels inclined to reconsider his abiding bent to apatheism. Experiencing a rapture to this degree of metaphysicality could be regarded as nothing short of jinxing proof to the corporal materialism of God humbling Himself from celestial body to mortal flesh. 

The endurance of his strained deliberation is yet illustrated, at present, by the union of a plain-sailing vertex and Tschirnhaus’ cubic. Although, the panting tongue could not apologise for inclusion of mathematics in this vigorous course of pleasure he’s rathe to relishing. From which the mind implores a rest from these rigorous values, he must persist in obliging the fruits of his appointed labour by not divorcing the electric chemistry betwixt artistic expression and scientific predilection. 

In the meantime, Jerome’s mind is redolent with memories of less turbulent times. When the fabric of time was sewn by linens, fine; a time when he and his brother were deemed as gentle and benign. Where they were yet treated as such by a mother yet to be enslaved by vice. 

Jerome seldom feels his cock softening at the relation of his brother’s semen to plasma. The quirky insistence of Jeremiah comparing the seeds of his release to a state of matter was somehow enhancing to the total eclipse of his orgasm. Not entirely erroneous by interpretation, yet nevertheless irrelevant to the task at hand. Slender fingers jointed to Jerome’s hand stimulate the bending man’s prostate with an equally, if not more, viscid substance. Each ridge of his engorged and aching cock pulses with an unsung tune of puerile ecstasy, unsheathed from enveloping warmth and shivering with need to be suffocated by comforting walls to call home. 

It was an open secret that neither half was well acquainted with the other’s regression of somatic topography. One could easily refute that there was, indeed, a regression in complexion. Where Jeremiah was sooner divested of his modestly trimmed combover, retiring of assisting eyes; of garments that intimated the sanitised touch of a professor lettered in architecture... 

Now, he was transmogrified in blueprint. A sinister metamorphosis, creeping and tumultuous in jesting pursuit. Hypnotising swirls of lens applied as substitute, his sight has since been modified in expression; denatured in spirit and blood. Strangely attuned to the strange compulsions of a man made bloated, in tightening threads of trousers, tailored exclusively to the sane, the buttons were swift to detach, fibers speedy in unraveling to unfixed strands. 

Likewise, the animated pneuma of Jerome was only partially deprived of a whole grist. The kernel of dulcet wrest pressing a ballad from the organ of his chest had long since devolved from buttery frame of popcorn. Glowing intensely along the ribs were rhythmic radiations pulsating, yet this radiance was ever dimming and faint. A mere wraith of shadow to what would have once been perceived as an exuberant child’s face. Loved by all for sporting a kindly smile. 

Unfortunately, for all, this smile was now severely gnarled. In a world where punishment was to be inflicted acutely, if not arbitrarily, upon the innocent, the dead tissues framing his original recipe of bright expectancy were, at once, made an excrescence to be despised and disposed to merciless eternity of hellfire. Unfairly vitiated by an impersonal jury, their scathing scrutiny was as a pestilence to Valeska immunity. 

Yet, in spite of an extraction, sans anæsthesia, of the teething sane, they, in composition and refrain, were, fundamentally, the same. 

Elementally, there was no particular aphorism sufficient enough in alluding to the indomitable perpetuity of sibling love. Especially so when the origins of genetic material were identical and corresponding in a sempiternal waltz of beauty. Jerome is denied temptation to prevaricate and say that he doesn’t miss the downy glide of his fingers through Jeremiah’s once ginger strands, just the faintest trace of cinnamon spice infused as matching charm to his twin flame. 

Jerome believes his brother is ready. Unlike Bruce Wayne and his empty promise of piety in securing Jeremiah’s partnership, Jerome instills belief in his brother unlike any other. A sense of blind faith that aims to challenge and eradicate the obscurity attending organised religion. Perhaps, it was, in fact, the organisation that was deserving of ample critique. In an absurd world, organisation was sin. With chaos as dictation, attention to detail, directed by a religious kino-eye, was apt to fracture the lens in totality. 

Jeremiah may have been medically purblind, but his intuition was far from myopic. Any visionary defects he witnesses scarcely affects the capacity to assimilate the lurid technicolour accosting his vision with dancing spots. He and his beloved deviant of a brother were currently entangled in a heated tango, from which the literal translations of choreography were clinically tardy in appearance. 

Every citizen in Gotham, in complete accord to the verdict of Jerome’s prognosis. Yes, he was mad. This logic was far removed from disapproval. He was mad. But, for verified reason. Mad with lust. With unadulterated sin. Aware and eagerly acknowledging of the corruption possessing him to denature the olive oil when summoned to confessional. A demon was residing within him, stomach muscles tensing, overcome with purposed seizure. 

Indeed, Jerome was mad for his brother. 

Precisely why he’s spent fifteen years anticipating the moment of their ill-fated reunion. Ultimately, it leads them to this moment of naked submission. In equal parts legitimacy and metaphor, they were nude to the core. Lamenting the loss of an immaculate redhead to dishevel at his sadistic leisure, Jerome settles instead for the unkempt mop of midnight clutched in his unyielding grip. Delighted reception to dappled streaks of sickly green, those calloused whorls, still littered with cuts from a recent kill, bleed a custom taint of hair dye to complement as he yanks with a firm command for attention.

“_ Ouch _.” Jeremiah offends in monotone. He didn’t trust himself to formulate sentences. Not when Jerome had fully sheathed himself without warning, inflammation warming Jeremiah’s anus from sheer friction of intrusion, despite the moderate coating of lubrication used to mitigate. 

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. 

“Shut up and take it'', Jerome labours, breaths gruff and dampened by sweat. “Your throat is next.” Punctuating this with another shallow thrust nearly leaves Jeremiah choking on his next words.

“Saliva as lube?” Jeremiah manages to huff his incredulity. Every tendon and ligament strings along to a discordant melody throughout the span of his taut infrastructure. Jaw clenching arrhythmic, shoulders tensing in succession to mechanical thrusts, forehead wrinkling in focus to reduce the agony of inflamed nerve endings. 

“Isn’t our relationship fucked enough?”

Resulting in another painfully sharp thrust, Jerome emits a particularly guttural groan as he stills himself, hovering over his brother’s fœtal, pinguid form, melding his own slather of unctuous skin in consecrated unity. Their warping respirations were closely entwined with the intermittent sounds of various machinery surviving within the factory. 

“Why can’t you ever stay quiet during this?” Jerome, audibly annoyed from inhibition, resuming his unsettled motions, tugs impossibly against the Black Sea rooted to Jeremiah’s scalp, provoking a whimper to replace complaint, thrusting deeper into his gradually easing hole, relative in force to that of a suction or vortex. Dare he say... _ a black hole. _

Jeremiah attempts to recover, in vain, the infantile memory of how they arrived in this position, mating like beasts in the throes of heat in an environment comparable only to that of a concrete jungle. With no affront intended to convey to the beasts that bray, he alone feels slighted to be betrayed to such a state, if only by visceral translation. 

Briefly, he too ponders upon his instinct to speak at length during inopportune times. A more inveterate section of thought says, ‘No. [insert pompous explication to the importance of speech]’. I could never “stay quiet”. Not when the situation is ever demanding of appeals to sophistry, among adjacent arguments to the appeals of sexual desire. 

Was Cain and Abel’s analogy not enough for God to reconsider the combination of incest and sodomy to condemnation? Surely, there had to be some fashion of forgiveness tailored in a land already dissipated by a fucked up concept of time, essentially fucked to submission by the dominatrix of its degenerate microcosm?

Perhaps his motive was noble. Holy, even. To some of those repressed, wayward angels. Perhaps his aim was to redefine the brothers’ allegory. To revise that which is forbidden to be rewritten. A rebel without a cause, to be sure, but for a hidden purpose so virtuous, the marring scar of incest could certainly be dispelled in relation to that of the lethal laceration preserved as a presage upon Abel’s fair head. 

For the sake of genetic inheritance, he agreed upon the denied acceptance of incestual coitus between heterosexual partners. Considering his denied acceptance of identity, he could neither claim nor disclaim attraction to the opposite sex. Often, he would ponder the prospect of having been an only child, freely exploring his sexuality, with special attent to the mind and heart’s complexion rather than that of the material body. 

Momentarily, the principles of biology could not be negated once inception has finalised the process of fruition. Fortunately, male pregnancy should persist in being purely conceptual and hence not a cumber to the theorised child of whom may be degenerated by ails of deformed genes. 

As mentioned before, the allusion of those biblical brothers as juxtaposed to the act of abomination illustrated by he and Jerome’s sloven copulation, was not one Jeremiah was apt to remark in jest. Respectable, in all manners, he was, specifically pertaining to his hovering caress along the sensitive skin of religion. 

In many ways, it seemed to him a penance. Inflicted by God or Jerome, he was yet to know. Only the former knows how _ ‘guiltless’ _ was not a pertinent description on that cowardly night of decision. Whereas many could only dream of packing their bags and running away _ to _ the circus, Jeremiah sought, what he perceived to be, a _ normal _ life. Even whilst being scourged by the knowledge of those _ normal _lives scarcely, if ever, being exempt from the plight of those less fortunate, the compulsion to leave made him ravenous with need. Perhaps more ravenous than he was now, being filled to repletion by the unholy ghost of his escape. 

Frankly, his neglected mouth would have rather received the blitzkrieg of assault opposed to what was being issued on the puckered mouth posterior. 

“Cat got your tongue, Broski? It’s okay if you want to scream out her name. I won’t complain.”

He knows he’s referring to Selina... 

As if this strange course of events couldn’t get any more fucked. 

Jerome is exceptionally lazy tonight. An observation that sends a latent circuit of concern through Jeremiah’s preoccupied nociceptors. His pain tolerance was fickle, that much was easy to deduce after a number of experimental ventures with Russian roulette. However, curiously, if not risibly, enough, the romance of his playground and toxic wasteland was not fluent in the language of his remaining anatomy. 

Odd logic has led him to experiencing a parallel to menstrual cramps, the anal mouth hissing for a soothing probe of tongue. His brother was nescient to measurement. Apparently, the natural rheoscope of his mind could not accurately determine the fact of his saliva not being an acceptable alternative to artificial lube. 

Of course he’d be a fool to think Jerome was not a closet sadist. 

Then again…

_ What did that make him? _


End file.
